


Bear and Cub and the End of the World

by Riachinko



Category: Into the Badlands (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fatherhood, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29280651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riachinko/pseuds/Riachinko
Summary: An immediate follow up to the series finale sees Bajie taking Henry out of the Badlands as promised, while trying to navigate an uncertain future.
Relationships: Bajie (Into the Badlands)/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 3





	1. PROLOGUE :

**Author's Note:**

> I want you to know straight up that this is highly self-indulgent fic focusing on Bajie after the series finale, and an original Simon Pegg stand-in character whom Bajie hooks up with (endgame!). Otherwise it's canon-compliant in its lore 人´∀｀)

"I am sorry, Minerva."

If he didn't know any better, notwithstanding unhealed wounds that would scar and incurable exhaustion, Bajie could swear he's been living inside a nightmare. In the cold, harsh mug of reality, though - and however unpleasant the final results were - he'd just helped to end one.

The earth is soft for late autumn, and surprisingly green beneath the layer of orange and brown leaves that crunch like bone under his boots. The old graveyard clearing in which he finds himself is cozy and intimate; home to the odd evergreen, but it's really the long, reaching rows of ivy vines crawling upside the dilapidated mausoleum that lend the area a brilliantly springy, emerald glow.

The sobering truth of why he's here, is that Tilda didn't make it: the young woman lays in her grave, body adorned with roses and hibiscus flowers, abloom with all the life that she's now void of. Mother Nature's vibrancy against the ruddy tones of her armour only serve to make her appear more pale, though the burgundy mesh veil over her face does soften her some. 

Bajie clasps a firm hand on Minerva's shoulder, and he can feel her back stiffen under his touch. He squeezes gently in lieu of fumbling through more thorough condolences. After all, he thinks, she tolerated him last week as a comrade in the desperation of war, but how much of his voice would she be able to handle under the influence of grief? That was anyone's guess.

She and Gaius nod solemnly in unison. The merry songs of sparrows wander on the breeze; life around them goes on as they stare into Tilda's shallow grave with tired, war-torn eyes. 

Travel from Pilgrim's Meridian Chamber had been sleepless, stretching over several days until they had made their way back into the Badlands, met Vitania and the Totemists they'd become familiar with in the Horse Territory. As Bajie would come to learn with some devastating regret, it had been M.K. who had wounded the girl - not fatally, but well enough - and had also passed at the hands of her vengeful mother. And, as much as Sunny had loved the boy (and he, too, had enjoyed M.K.'s company in passing), Bajie hadn't blamed Minerva at all.

There'd only been so much the Totemists could do with what supplies they had left over from battle. The wound was too deep and ill-placed, growing infected and affecting her appendix. 

By the end of the third day, with a body tragically heavy and limp, the Baron and the Widow had arrived home; had found Bajie hunched over a bowl of pork stew and his flask in their kitchen, sitting with a harem of Juliette's healers and handmaidens. He'd driven like the wind on some poor dead sap's motorbike to unwittingly beat them here.

"It's over now," Minerva says, crimson lips pulled into a tight line. "She was stubborn to the end, but her sacrifice was not in vain."

It's been a bit of a shock to the system to see the Badlands torn up as it is; very nearly everyone Bajie had come to call an ally - or dare he believe even a _friend_ \- is in the ground. Some bodies were unrecoverable, some were maimed beyond recognition, and nobody deserved that. 

Bajie's eyes drift down to the worn leather on the toe of his boots while Minerva kneels and murmurs into the grave. 

It's just luck, maybe, that he's managed to survive this war - both of them, really, because there was one he was made part of by tailing Sunny, and one completely avoidable one which he himself had helped bring about, wasn't there? His gut clenches, pangs of guilt shooting from the tips of his frozen toes to his bleeding heart, reminding him for the thirtieth time today that Sunny is dead; that no matter how hard you fight, Mother Fate can be as cruel a bitch as she can be kind. 

It's Minerva who turns away from the grave first, heels sinking in the grass, kicking up stray leaves - brown and yellow and red alike, some freshly fallen from the surrounding trees with the ability to turn. The wind tosses her hair about like flames as she stalks away, and Bajie studies her; that formidable aura.

"Hey," Gaius says softly in Bajie's direction, pulling him out of his misery. Gaius turns to follow his lover - his Baroness, if they're keeping titles - but first waves a hand, motioning for Bajie to follow as well. "Let's head home."

Bajie frowns, finally feels the bite of autumn at his fingertips and shoves them into his coat pockets as he takes one last quick look at Tilda's grave, and turns on his heel. He jogs a few steps, catching up to the man stood in regal green and white, waiting on him.

"Home," Bajie apes, keeping pace with Gaius now. "There's nothing in there for me."

"She won't say it now," Gaius says quietly, leaning inward as though it's best for his lover not to hear, "but times like these, you want to keep your friends close, and you're one of her oldest. Minerva would like for you to stay. _I_ would like for you to stay." 

The Fox Territory is large and plush with wildlife, and Butterfly Territory's mines and oil fields, prosperous. It could be comfortable, hunkering down on the wealthy side of life. Not as a miner, of course - he's lived the hell out of the mining life - but maybe as a toolpusher or commandant. But then, staying within the boundaries of the Badlands' too-tall cement walls means more politics, more war and uncertainty as Minerva and Gaius navigate new world leadership and others step up to fight for their own piece of the pie...

…A uniform, maybe, and Bajie never did suit conformity. 

"I promised Sunny I'd take Henry away from here."

He wrinkles his nose, looking down at his feet once more, grass and stone speckled blood red underfoot, no matter how many steps he seems to take towards White Bone Manor. 

"Besides, I'd be welcome for a while, but Minerva doesn't really want me here - believe me, I'm surprised she wants a man in her life at all," he scoffs. "I'd be in the way if I stayed."

They walk the remaining stretch of limestone path in silence, the somber ringing of copper funeral bells echoing in Bajie's ears.


	2. BEAR AND CUB JOURNEY WEST :

The prospect of being a single father leaving the Badlands ends up more daunting than Bajie had previously imagined.

The toes of his boots grow white halos, melting into the Kashan rug from where he sits on a large wooden chest, its sun-bleached paint chipped and peeling between his legs. The guest bedroom in which he'd stayed the night with Henry seems rather to be a storage room for Old World trinkets, and he'd stayed up late mentally cataloguing each item and the value he thought it might hold. Chests and boxes sit arranged symmetrically along one wall - he knows they're locked because his curiosity had gotten the better of him - while floating shelves house tin toys and elaborately-framed cameos on either side of the chiffonier.

A tribute to a life of excess that Bajie's never truly had, but regardless, will be giving up before the day's end. He sighs.

Henry may never see a room like this again, and would Sunny be glad? He wonders - as he often does lately - what the boy's real father would have done in a post-Pilgrim, post-Baron world, and whether or not Bajie would have been part of that new adventure. Find a nice place, settle down...

 _Who am I kidding_ , _Sunny never thought anything through, he'd be just as lost as me_. 

The infant's gentle coos echo under the high ceiling, from across the room in a luxurious cream and gold cradle. From the doorway, a familiar voice seems to smirk at them,

"You're sure you want to leave this behind? The world is a lot less generous outside these walls." 

The soles of Minerva's heeled boots clack like hooves of horses against the tile. She commands attention, walking slowly, deliberately, circling the cradle until she's stood at the foot of it, looking down at Sunny's orphan fondly. Henry's blanket has slipped down off his chest; taking soft wool between long red nails, she pulls it up beneath his chin. 

The sweetness of her perfume overpowers Bajie momentarily; he's thankful that Veil hadn't birthed a daughter for him to look after instead. It’s one thing to smell like cat piss, but another to smell too strongly of manufactured flowers. 

"Baby, I know it," he says pointedly, shuffling his inventory, trying to make the best of the limited space in his shoulder bag. "Yeah, I'm sure. I'm not so familiar with the Badlands, but the _Waste_ lands? I know those. I made do out there for forty years, didn't I? Never once been a Baron's cog, and I ended up just fine." 

The redhead laughs to herself, but doesn't turn around. Bajie's glad for it - she'd only chide him for smiling, being smug. Truth is, it's just good to hear someone laughing.

He rummages about some more.

One eight ounce baby bottle, he's taking; he'll need to pack an ice box if he wants to keep milk. He'd taken a bottle of red wine with him to bed last night; he disregards what little remains in hopes of getting an unopened bottle to bring along instead. He pads the glass bottles with cloth diapers and warm clothes for Henry, a loaf of bread and three apples that his new handmaiden acquaintance Annie had given him. 

"You're taking a vehicle?" It's as much a statement as it is a question, Minerva's brow knit tight in confusion. "You don't need to stuff everything in one bag."

A merino wool knit cap - heather grey and soft as anything - he slips onto his head; riding gloves; a pipe, a bit of opium to accompany the wine on lonely nights. Feeling suddenly rather irritable, Bajie stops packing, sets his bag at his feet. He rubs the palms of his hands along his thighs where the sun has been heating the fabric of his trousers. His fingers itch, but he can't decide whether or not it's from rubbing them along his legs.

"I have to imagine somewhere along the way, I'm going to attract the attention of pirates. If something happens, I only want one bag and that baby to look after." 

Sunlight filters through thin, white silk curtains, giving Minerva an otherworldly glow as she stands, again with her back turned to her old mentor.

"I thought, it might be nice for my child to have a playmate." Her eyes drift over Henry's small, drowsy form. His skin is so soft and vibrant, tinted slightly red as babies tend to be; tiny, fragile hands and little pink fingernails clutch at the blanket. "They and Henry would be around the same age...would grow with the same privileges." 

When she turns, Bajie catches the glint of unfallen tears in her eyes. She makes eye contact with him briefly before quickly looking towards the doorway, vulnerable. "I'm nervous about raising a child."

Bajie smiles, the kind of smile that consumes half his face and makes his cheeks puff, swelling with a strange kind of pride. 

"You'll get used to it. You've already tackled parenting the teenage years." He chuckles when she can’t help but smirk. "Yeah - you've got a good man, healers and nannies. Followers! I tell you who _should_ be scared…" His voice softens, then. "I never thought I'd be raising a kid."

"Well," she shrugs, turning to lean against the cradle, opposite Bajie. She crosses her arms, but the expression on her face contrasts with her stony body language. She looks square into Bajie's eyes - brown and full and shining like ale in the sunlight that envelops him - and he can tell that she's being sincere when she says,

"Sunny trusted you to keep him safe, and, as much as I've hated you for it, you _have_ always managed to stay on your feet without compromising your values. I know that you'll treat Henry as well as you…treated me."

She looks at her feet, and Bajie can see a ghost of the young girl he'd known. 

It took guts for her to confess that, he knows. His first instinct is to tease her ruthlessly, repeat her words back to her until she's red-face embarrassed and as cross as she was when he'd been training her. She's still a spitfire, but no longer quite the same little Flea - now she's all grown up and has matured into the strong leader he knew she was capable of being all along. 

He finds himself feeling sentimental, so rather than goading her into an argument, he simply nods. 

"Thank you."

The smell of antique wood and dust is gradually fading more and more from Bajie's senses - even the flowery chemistry of Minerva's perfume is gone. His stomach rumbles with feral growls as the distinct aromas of coffee beans and cooked meat wash over him now instead. 

He's been awake for a while already - the oversized analog clock on the wall reads 7:45. In a different time, Bajie would have winced, cursed out a God he doesn't believe in for creating such an hour. In recent weeks however, it seems as though he can't sleep past eight o'clock. 

Not unless he's hungover, anyway.

"Come down to the dining hall," says Minerva. "Have a meal, some coffee. If you're set on leaving, it would be wise to make the most of the daylight and depart shortly after breakfast."

Henry gurgles in agreement, babbling at something invisible on the ceiling - or perhaps the cheeky bounce of Minerva's red hair. 

"That's one thing we have in common, little one," Bajie says jubilantly, "awake and raring to go at the mention of a meal."

Minerva tosses him a snide glance as Bajie pushes himself up off the wooden chest to join her. He slings his bag of treats over one shoulder, stretches; his joints crackle, and he bites his tongue before he complains about being as old as he feels.

Henry looks up at him with an admiring kind of recognition, squealing happily when Bajie reaches down to tickle a finger against Henry's chest, and boops him on the nose. 

"Come on then," Bajie sings, scooping the tyke up and holding the kid’s chest against his shoulder. 

Henry's demeanor quickly fades to a whine, eyes wide and worried, barking out into the first high-pitched grunts of a sob. Minerva looks anxiously into Bajie's eyes, and he looks unsuredly back, patting Henry's back softly, once, twice. He's just about to ask her for help, or maybe to call an elderly handmaiden - anyone with experience, really - and then--

Henry burps.

He coughs up a milky, vaguely chunky formula, concentrated on his guardian's shoulder. It doesn't stink, doesn't drip, just soaks through Bajie's jumper as he stands with his eyes closed in discomfort, willing away the sensation of warm vomit against his skin. He knows babies are wont to spit up, though he'd never witnessed it thus far in their relationship. 

The kid seems a lot more content afterwards - it needs to be said - and giggles along mindlessly when Minerva bursts into a short fit of laughter. 

"Alright," Bajie sighs, "alright. That's one thing you can look forward to with yours."

He hands Henry to her, in spit-free clothing around which she wraps a felt blanket from the crib. Luckily the mess is confined to his shoulder - he dabs it as dry as possible with a handkerchief from the night stand and waves Minerva on out the door. 

"I'd say I've lost my appetite, but, I haven't." He flashes a lopsided, toothy grin, brushing past Minerva and Henry to lead them out of the room, following the handrail down the hall, and down a spiral of marble stairs that seem to stretch on forever. 

"You're planning on staying here in the Chaus' mansion, then?" Bajie asks behind him. "Or will you be returning to your 'Sanctuary?'" 

"Both hold unsavory memories if we’re being honest," she says, and as her heel hits the final step, she sighs. "I haven't decided. We haven't discussed it at all." 

"Discussed what?" Gaius chirps from around the corner, holding a saucer in one hand, beneath the finely painted porcelain teacup he holds in the other.

In the dining hall, Gaius takes his seat at the head of the large, oval table. Empty plates and utensils wait patiently on either side of him to be warmed by breakfast. A handmaiden pours fresh milk and earl grey tea, and the sweet scent of cooked ham wafts through the air and into Bajie's nostrils. 

"Nothing," Minerva says, joining him at the placing on his right.

That’s the end of that.

They dine peacefully, chatting idly until Bajie's stomach is big and full, and Henry's been fed so well he's gone to sleep. Gaius - despite his sordid family history - is friendly and warm-hearted, rocking Henry softly on one knee to keep the child dozing until it's time for him and Bajie to head off. 

Bajie sneaks a few glances in Minerva's direction, watching her watch her lover dote over Sunny's boy, expression peaceful, contented. He tries to imagine Lily looking at him like that, but can't, so he yawns and stands instead, placing both hands on the tablecloth and pushing himself upright. 

"Right, then." 

***

His hosts lead Bajie outdoors.

There's a large stable on the back lot of the property - decorated so finely that it might as well just be considered a house - where he finds his gifted car. It's white, or was once. It's since been coated in dust and dirt, splotches dried into the windshield where rain had once attempted to wash it clean but failed. Its rear passenger-side door is a mismatched silver - patchwork that reads as possibly unreliable. Almost certainly a stolen old junker.

But better than nothing at all. 

It's better this way anyhow, Bajie reasons, as any vehicle that's in proper condition tends to be a thief’s first target, and he's had his fill of fighting for a while. He'd be content to curl up near a stream with a girly magazine, some ale, and fish his time away instead. 

_All in due time, Bajie my boy_. 

He opens the boot, and finds a modest canister of gasoline. 

"It’s full," Gaius says, placing a set of ceramic pots and utensils and drinking glasses in a small crate beside the fuel. Then next to that, a bed roll.

"A little ways beyond the barracks, there’s a series of tunnels; my sister’s men used to capture immigrants there. They diverge often, but your best chance is to just go straight through. I’m not sure which tunnels may have been barred off over the years, but the main stretch never closed down."

From his pocket, then, Gaius hands Bajie a dagger. It's sheathed in an average-looking tan leather case, but when he pulls it out a couple of inches, the steel gleams brilliantly around an ornate fox insignia with a pearl embedded at either end of the quillion. It fits nicely in Bajie’s coat pocket. 

He plops his shoulder bag - and he _had_ gotten that fresh bottle of wine, thank you, Annie - down next to Henry, swaddled and secured in the passenger seat. The entire car rocks as he shifts his weight against the backseat to spread out a couple of extra thin blankets, jumpers, hiding anything of potential value from plain sight. All in all, it's a hefty and useful care package - it even includes an informal invitation back, should he change his mind about the trek.

Satisfied, Bajie settles a hand on either of his hips, leans backwards and cracks the discomfort out of his shoulders.

When he sits, the seat complains with a _pompf_ , which he ignores, wrestling his way into it, moving around to get comfortable. He adjusts his seat, pushing it back; the rearview mirror is set, the side mirrors, well, he doesn't really use those if he's being honest.

Good to go.

"One more thing," Minerva says, stepping past Gaius to speak with Bajie through the rolled-down car window. She passes a navy velour satchel to him, heavy with contents that clink richly inside as the bag makes contact with Bajie's palm. 

"This should be enough to get by for a while," she says, as Bajie hooks a finger through the corded drawstring and pulls the bag open. 

Silver and gold coins wink up at him, as do the elegant curves of metal jewelry and baubles for trade buried among the change. He fishes a silver ring band from the satchel. 

"F'aw, you just wish you were there to see me get my ass kicked over all this," Bajie guffaws, tugging the drawstring closed and chucking the moneybag next to Henry.

Minerva crosses her arms and flashes that knowing smile that Bajie’s sure he'll come to miss. Gaius, too, nods and wraps an arm around his lover's waist.

"I have no doubts our paths will cross again. Stay out of trouble in the meantime," Minerva says. 

"Safe travels," adds Gaius. 

And then the car starts up with a rumble; foot to the pedal, and it jerks into motion. Bajie taps the horn lightly as a way of bidding the couple farewell, watches his benefactors shrink and distort in the rearview mirror. He doesn't make it far off the acreage before Bajie’s attention is caught, and he parks, just outside the mansion gates. 

He leaves the motor running, and Henry inside. "Two seconds."

In the clearing of the property's burial ground, he sees her: a young girl with legs like stilts and dark chocolate hair thrown up into a messy bun. She kneels on the grass by Tilda's grave, covered overnight with earth and punctuated with a finely carved stone cross at the head of the plot. 

Bajie recognizes her, knows she fought for the Widow, and that she left everything behind to fight alongside the Iron Rabbit not too long after that. 

"Hey, you," he says. He doesn't remember her name - not sure if he ever knew it, to be fair. 

"Hello, Bajie," Odessa says, swallowing into a somber frown as she rises to her feet. Her hands are clasped together, white at the knuckles. 

"I'm sorry."

She nods, staring down at the loose dirt covering a body's length of land, at the lilies and daisies tied into wreaths and in inexpertly-composed bouquets beside the cross left by admirers-née-cogs. 

"Mm. We weren't together, but it still hurts. She was so strong...righteous and good. "I loved her," she says. "I'm sorry about Sunny."

Bajie shrugs, in a show of patented Bajie blasé faire. 

"We weren't together either."

She smiles at that, a soft tint rising in her cheeks. She opens her mouth to speak, but seems to think better of it; closes it as the white patchworked car captures her attention. She notices Henry wriggling in the passenger seat, Bajie supposes, because she hums and asks, 

"But you have Henry. Where will you go?" 

He wavers in place a moment, kicks at a rock beneath his feet. It bounces over to a small orange flower, which Bajie bends to pluck and offers to Odessa.

"I don't know - out of all this," he gestures broadly. "I spent some good years in a town by the ocean, I wouldn't mind making my way back."

"The Outlying Territories," she murmurs, not a question, just a quiet statement of fact. She twirls the stem of the gifted flower between her thumb and forefinger; nods, once, twice, lost in emotion. 

Then, once Bajie is feeling good and awkward and regretting having stopped the car at all, she smiles; holds out her arms and steps forward to wrap the man in an earnest hug that he hesitates towards accepting, but ultimately returns. 

"Be safe out there," she says. "That little boy is our future."

***

He heads West. 

It was foolish, maybe, not to have brought a map, but he's still about 87% sure that he doesn't _need_ one - in recent weeks he's been back and forth between the Territories so often that he's certain the directions are mapped up there in his grey matter. 

And the directions, right now, are intuitive: go straight until you can't go straight anymore. 

The vehicle vibrates over uneven gravel roads, partially grown over with weeds, or otherwise caked over with sand. Trees flash by in thick strokes of auburn and shades of green reaching up so high the sky almost appears green as well. 

There's not a car on the road save for his own, though the roadside is a different story with civilians dotting the curb, small groups of soldiers who've lost their cause, heading opposite his car, for the most part. Bajie watches as their bodies blur by and blend in with the trees, careful not to make direct eye contact with anyone walking in his direction. He doesn't want to start adopting strays now. 

"More isn't always merrier, lad," he says idly to his wide-eyed, murmuring companion, "remember that."

The bright side is that nobody seems to care about stopping him. Without their Barons, the soldiers drone about aimlessly, minding their own business - which for many of them should be the frightening reality of freedom.

The road is as long as the priciest doll's legs, and as curvaceous as well, but there are no forks to deter him from his destination. He recognizes landmarks - or thinks he does - like wells and mines and barracks, but specifically, he's been keeping an eye out for the underground sewage tunnel that he'd used with M.K. and Sunny before their whole venture into the wall went pear-shaped.

They stop, about two hours out from White Bone Manor, next to a small patch of woodland with a dilapidated manmade barricade and brick well.

As it turns out, though traveling with an infant is a lot less productive than traveling on his own, it's almost equally as productive as traveling with Sunny had been. Bajie chuckles to himself, glancing over at Henry briefly as the child babbles incoherently in a patch of sunlight. Sunny was always taking them on fool's errands, but if he tried to put himself in Sunny's shoes (and it was a tight fit but he very nearly was), he could understand wanting to do anything he could for the little shitter.

The rotten sulfur of excrement makes Bajie wince. 

He lays Henry down, naked among emerald reeds and timothy grass, and begrudgingly removes the child's soiled diaper. He'd gotten the routine down during his travels with Sunny; left flap first, then right, then remove the pin and nappy. Clean the kid up with gentle wipes away from the delicate bits, and reverse the wrapping directions with a fresh cotton cloth. 

Not glamorous, but easy peasy nonetheless. 

"Can't wait for you to be able to chat, little one," Bajie muses aloud. 

He draws water from the well, runs his hands through the cool, olive murk of it. The soiled cloth lays lightly stained but competently washed, drying on a rock. It'll do until they can find proper shelter, but he's glad he packed several clean nappies to be safe.

"This relationship needs a little more give and take. I don't see you cleaning up after me," he chuckles. "Happy to spit up on me, though."

Bajie isn't particularly hungry so soon after breakfast - especially after having dealt with baby shit - but he forces himself to try one of the honeycrisp apples he'd packed, and removes a vial of cow's milk from the cooling pack in his shoulder bag. He worries - while pouring the contents of the vial into the baby bottle and securing the nipple - that Henry will reject the chilled milk, but he suckles the rubber nipple eagerly, lost in Bajie's large arms, and doesn't complain.

Though lacking the motherly instincts of a woman in situations like this, Bajie takes pride in the competence he _does_ display - he hasn't killed the kid yet. He's never much wanted to be a father - his own had been an abusive drunk and had instilled a fear in him that he might one day turn out the same. The Abbots at the Monastery were bad in their own ways - passive-aggressive and demanding of him, manipulative. From a young age, he was distrustful of authority, except for when it was his own.

His mother, he couldn't comment much on except for that she drank as well, and although she was the loving parent of the two, kept it no secret that Bajie and his sister had been accidents. 

Likewise, he'd never been with a woman who'd had a child by choice - babies seemed to bring bad luck. Lily had been his better half for two years, and his most serious relationship to date - in terms of length and level of investment, at least - and she had never much wanted to be a mother, either. She'd confirmed as much recently, even. 

Still, Black Wind was the first place he'd considered retiring to post-war, and "Lillian" was the first name on his mind when deciding whom to turn to with the son of his late friend. She'd been pretty clear about their relationship status though, hadn't she? 

He misses her. 

"Wellp," he sighs when there's only a fraction of milk remaining and Henry's stopped suckling. He collects their belongings within arm's range, then stands, holding Henry up to the sky with finesse. "We'd better get a move on, kid. Your uncle Bajie is starting to get weepy and pathetic." 

He ties the wet nappy to the car antennae to air dry, tucks Henry into his nest of blankets in the front seat, and hits the gas. 

They drive another eighty minutes before finding the underground tunnel.

Bajie pulls the car cautiously up to the mouth of it, flashing the high-beams inside briefly. He spots weapons - bows and spears - leaning against the wall of the opening, as well as crates and boxes of who-knows-what hidden partially by shadow. It doesn't seem abandoned by any means, just wholly unmanned. 

The surrounding area is unsettlingly quiet - he hasn't had any trouble yet, and a place like a Territory wall checkpoint ought to be much more dangerous. 

So he sits, drums his fingers against the steering wheel, and waits for an ambush.

Nothing.

He hasn't seen - _can't see_ \- anyone, which concerns him, but Bajie imagines there's literally light at the end of the tunnel if he were to make it that far. He isn't certain that it's safe...but he is sure that it's dark, it stinks, and it leads straight through to the Outlying Territories, so he drives.

True to Gaius' word, the overhead potlights reveal many of the forked routes to be blocked off. It's a grueling drive in the dark, but a short enough one, and soon, they're at the end of the underground shortcut. 

The end of the tunnel leads them to an old Mexsol gas station. An overcast sky greets them there, but unfortunately the reason for the lack of nomads in the area is now glaringly obvious: the entire area is abandoned, and the tunnel itself is blocked off with a barred metal gate. 

A wall of stacked crushed cars has collapsed at some point between now and his previous visit, and caused not an indecent amount of carnage - glass and rubbish everywhere, oil barrels overturned and emptied.

"Oi!" Bajie shouts, getting cautiously out of the car. His voice booms and echoes down the empty tunnel behind him. With a deep frown, he rattles the bars of the gate. "Hello? Anyone still kicking out there?"

Stuck. 

"Come on..." 

They were so bloody close. 

Could be that the checkpoint had been under attack - one of the few old buildings in the area has a sizable hole in the side of it - a solid twenty feet of concrete slabs and pieces of rubble lay scattered over the road ahead, charred black at the edges. 

They'd been bombed? 

Hard to say whether it was a deliberate attack on the checkpoint or just collateral damage from the territorial war with Chau. Regardless of how it's happened, their path is blocked.

"Shit."


	3. BLOOM OF HAPPINESS :

Maybe the wise thing to do in this situation would be to turn around and find another way through the checkpoint. He has the gas, he's got the time. 

It wasn't long ago that Bajie would have laughed and shrugged, said there must be a reason for the detour, but he's so tired. He's done with leaning on Mother Fate - this isn't a mystical sense of humour or an otherworldly sign of any kind, this is just the shit that happens when people are pig-headed and stubborn in their righteous beliefs and wage war on each other.

He'd pulled the car over beside stacks of old tires, tables with racks of tools; a door that leads to the Mexsol station proper. The sharp stench of gunpowder and rot attaches itself to him more and more the longer he stays in place, and he isn't much a fan of smelling like rot. 

"We are going on an adventure, lad," Bajie huffs, opening the passenger-side door to retrieve his charge. "The coast is lined with little pissant villages - time to stretch the old gams and find one." 

Henry's a good kid, waiting quietly in the front seat as Bajie folds a felt wrap into a small, but thick square that just barely fits in between the kid and his blanket; tidies a pale-green houndstooth throw over his shoulders as a shawl - he's sweating already. He pats his coat down, feels for the Chau dagger and his nunchaku. Then finally, he takes Henry's blanket and pulls it into a podaegi sling, hoisting the kid up against his back. He's never had so many tangible things to worry about.

"You don't mind walking?"

The boot of the car stays locked with the gas and pottery inside - with any luck they'll be able to make a return for the car, but if all fails, Bajie's got the most valuable goods on him in his shoulder bag.

He taps the roof fondly, a tinny bass rumble echoes down the tunnel through the unlit emptiness behind them. "I'll come back for you, darling."

Then Bajie raises his heel, gets ready to kick in the station door. Boot connects to metal with a billowing crash--

But the door to the station had been ajar. 

He stumbles in, just narrowly keeping upright but still managing to fall into a concession stand and magazine rack, which in turn knocks over a childsize plastic chair and cans and miscellaneous rubbish that had been in the way. 

"Shitting-! Hell-!" he hisses, as Henry gurgles happily behind him. He has to admit, Henry's callous laughter at his misfortune does always help to elevate his mood. 

There's a soft crunching sound to their right that sends a bolt of energy through Bajie's veins. He reaches for the dagger in his front pocket and readies himself for combat, treading lightly through the carnage, mindful of his steps as he continues further inside. The shop is otherwise quiet; he certainly doesn't see anyone, though it wouldn't be out of the question for the checkpoint smugglers to be taking up shelter here.

His eyes meet a circular mirror in the corner of the station, he squints to see through the layer of dirt and dust. 

Something moves in its reflection.

"Oi, who's there?" he says with conviction, inching his way toward the main set of glass doors. "I don't want no trouble...just passing through..."

He eyes another, smaller mirror above the door; can hear some scuttling from an undecided direction. And then--

An opossum. 

It's fat with salt and pepper fur, and it wobbles as it walks in front of Bajie without a care in the world. He releases a breath that he'd been unintentionally holding, swears under his breath, and makes his way out the front doors.

The wintery blue sky above offers fresh, sewage-free air, gulls, and clouds that might form shapes if he stares long enough. There's no snow fallen here yet, and it's therefore much more difficult to tell in which direction the locals had gone off to. 

"Feels a bit like the end of the world, doesn't it?" 

Henry goos in reply. 

The wall checkpoint was always just that: a checkpoint. Plenty of cars, but all of them crushed flat for the junkyard or in various states of disarray; not very many buildings suitable for residency and not much in the way of dining either. What hasn't been demolished already looks properly ransacked; it's best to walk on. 

He saunters over to the concrete pile of rubble, remnants of an old suite building. He stands at the foot of it for a long moment - he can climb it, survey his surroundings...

Indeed, the precise routes of his and Sunny's travels are a bit of a blur after all the drinking and the fruitless wandering from fight to fight he's done of late, but he clearly remembers passing several small communities on their way here the first time. As sure as he is that he'd find a town in any direction so long as he walked long enough, he'd prefer to actually see one with his own eyes first. 

If only he was the one swaddled and being carried, he sighs. "Ugh."

 _Climbing_.

It isn't the worst climb of his life, for sure. It's just that Pilgrim didn't leave him in the greatest of shapes, his muscles ache and he hates moving uphill under any circumstance. One saving grace is that the collapsed building is in fairly large chunks, and stable underfoot. 

He imagines being twenty years younger; remembers how the hike to the top of the Monastery could really take it out of him. His training never did make him any less round, but he'd always persevered and made it up the mountain just fine in the end despite his grumbling. So, he channels Young Bajie, making his way dutifully up without stopping until he's at the tippy top.

If he had a flag, he'd stab it into the rubble with pride. 

The land beyond the checkpoint is flat and barron and samey; not as familiar at first look as he'd hoped, but that was no reason to waste time lamenting it. The way back down to earth seems as straight-forward as the way up, if not more steep, so he descends arse-first with caution for Henry's sake.

And walks. 

***

Boulder Bottom is a bustling desert tent village, about a forty minute trek by foot from the checkpoint. It's off the straight-and-narrow of the main road, he'd seen it vaguely on the horizon from the top of the rubble hill; had followed a dust pattern of tire tracks to find it. 

He's been through here in the past, he realizes, though not on the better side of fifteen years. He makes his way past the gates - large slabs of brick stacked dangerously high between either end of the area's surrounding cliffs.

Unsurprisingly, the place remains largely the same as he remembers. 

Out-of-commission cars line the thin cobblestone roads, helping to keep colourful canvas, plastic and vinyl structures standing tall. Every man-made fort and decrepit wooden merchant's stall seems to tilt in the breeze, and Bajie wonders if it's worth stopping by the village at all - he isn't sure how the place has remained standing all these years. With the onset of winter, he doesn't trust that it'll be standing even by morning.

Henry murmurs behind him, fussing perhaps because he's hungry, perhaps he needs to shit. The difference between the two is still a little unclear.

_Do parents ever actually understand the intonations of their kid's squeals?_

"Alright, alright," Bajie sighs, gripping the straps of Henry's podaegi tight, hosting the kid further up his back. 

"Let's get you a drink, if nothing else." He hums absently, adding, "You and me both."

It's cold as hell out here, with the breeze coming off of the ocean and no building tall enough to block it through the wind tunnel of cliffs. It whips a salty, musty smell through the air, and the townsfolk he passes don't smell much better. 

The people remind him of those from Black Wind, who - as rotten as they are - make him nostalgic. 

He enters a crowd of vendors and buyers, a crowd dense and diverse. All manner of goods are on display, and he passively admires it all as he weaves hurriedly through; nobody says anything to him directly, but Bajie can feel eyes on him. 

It shouldn't be that anyone knows him here - but it's not _impossible_ \- and there isn't a price on his head that he's aware of - though who's to say that there isn't an outstanding bounty or two? He'd burnt a few bridges running with Sunny.

He makes it a point to turn down the nearest alley he can find, past the marketplace, edging sideways between buildings with pathways so tight he has to twist Henry over to his hip to fit comfortably through. It's been raining here, he hopes, or else the sludge running down the drainpipe he bumps his shoulder into is going to leave a gnarly stain...

Stepping out into the open at last, he finds himself with a landfill in the distance off to his left, and the welcoming wood bead curtain doors of the local tavern to his right. 

"We're in luck," he grins widely, checking his peripheries briefly to make sure he hasn't been followed and makes his way in. 

The tavern is bigger inside than it looks from the road, certainly, and though its tables and chairs are arranged sparsely throughout, they're almost all sat at. Men with cards, men with empty glasses.

Bajie makes eye contact with those who acknowledge him as he passes, nodding and smiling and tossing about "hi mates" and "alrights" freely. Drunks breed opportunity - be it for information or coin that he can gamble away from them - and he's ready to work his magic, as soon as Henry gets his milk.

The shelves have only hard liquor on display, Bajie notes, pulling out a stool for himself along the bar island; sitting and drumming his fingers against the countertop, splashing in a puddle of something clear. It smells of vodka when he brings his finger to his nose and licks to confirm.

"Vodka's good," he nods at the barkeep, "and milk if you've got it for my friend here."

The stool beside his own is empty, so Bajie latches the toe of his boot to it and drags it over, carefully shrugging the sling off his back and placing Henry onto the seat beside him. Little hands flop up and down; big, brown eyes look excitedly around, taking in new surroundings, new sounds. Smiling brightly when Bajie leans in to show the kid the tumbler of goat's milk he'd received alongside his liquor.

He takes care in funnelling the drink into the bottle, securing the nipple, and passes it off. 

"Hey big'un," says a voice from behind him, then, and Bajie's hair stands on end. "You look like trouble." 

The stool next to Henry's squeaks as it's pulled across the floorboards; a man sits in one smooth motion, dressed in a pine green peacoat and rich browns: worn, but not tattered attire that doesn't quite fit in. He sports a blonde beard threaded with silver hairs, shorter and slightly more tamed than Bajie's own, with wild, straw-coloured hair swept back off his temple. Despite the edge implied by his words, he seems fairly jovial, sober and cool, sipping from a tumbler glass the barkeep passes him with only a wave of his index finger.

Bajie scrunches his nose up into a wink as he sips from his vodka and turns to face the man. "A lot of people would agree with you."

The stranger hums.

"I was talking to your baby," he grins. "You don't see many of those around here...he must be a tenacious little survivalist."

Long, lithe fingers hold the glass to his lips, soil under his nails making Bajie suddenly self-conscious of his own - it seems like ages since he had a decent wash, and he can feel everything from the dirt at his fingertips to the grit in his beard.

The man sips his drink leisurely, then before Bajie can reply, he leans in - close enough to where the smell of gin on his breath stings Bajie's nostrils - and says lowly, "You intend to sell the kid?" 

Bajie's eyebrows reach his hairline for just a second; child labour is a simple fact of life in the Territories so there's no use in being surprised by the question. He himself had been lucky - if he can call it luck - to have been stolen away to the Monastery early on in his life - early enough to have avoided the trafficking aspect of such labor. Still, at the Monastery, he was put to work, and never enjoyed what he might call a perfect childhood.

It's because Henry is his now, he supposes, that his heart races, possessive; willing to bash anyone's head in who would dare to try taking the kid away for sale. He eyes the tip of the longsword slung across the man's back. 

"D'you intend to take him from me?" Bajie frowns, sucking his lips into a thin line, already beginning to feel the drink flood his system.

The stranger's eyes soften immediately, crow's feet at the corners of his eyes deepening when he smiles. 

"Not me, but others. You'll want to keep an eye on him if you're staying here for long, he'd fetch a good price on the black market and there're a lot of folks 'round here who need the coin."

He drinks deeply from his glass, tongue darting across his lower lip to catch the bitter liquid remnants there before he extends a hand.

"Nezha."

Bajie studies the man's face - his eyes are honest and kind, but so are Bajie's, and he's been known in the past to be neither. Regardless, he doesn't wait too long to shake the man's hand. It's been far too long since he was able to have a proper conversation with anyone over nine months old - or an _im_ proper one for that matter. 

"Bajie."

His knuckles are red and scabbed from fighting with people since deceased. He wonders how Nezha's been living to have such unblemished hands.

"'Bajie?' Your mum had a sense of humour too." 

The bigger man chuckles. "We won't be here long, just passing through." 

"Fair enough," Nezha smiles, and his eyes narrow like those of a fox, "Boulder Bottom is certainly more of a hotbed for transients. I've been here two weeks and it feels like twelve days too long."

"Yeah...It has got a kind of smell to it, hasn't it."

"Has it?" Nezha laughs, taking another long sip from his gin. "Definitely been here too long, then. What's your story?" 

"Now that, is a tale too long and too sordid to share with a stranger in a tavern. I'll tell you what, though, everything I've ever done and stood for has culminated in my being stuck with this little shit machine here. This is my life now. This is Henry."

"Well," Nezha smirks, eyes flickering from the child's face to Bajie's large, chapped hands grasping scratched glass, and back. "Hullo little one. Your father is a bit of a dark horse, isn't he?"

"I guess it's worth knowing, I'm not the boy's real father."

"Aren't you," Nezha laughs sardonically. "But he's your spitting image."

Bajie laughs and the blond orders them more to drink with another wave of his hand. The intimate feeling of being a pub regular, having a barman to hold a tab with and share gossip with...Bajie misses it. He finds himself dropping his inhibitions and enjoying himself for the first time in a while. A glass of vodka slides down the counter top and stops short of his wrist; a glass of gin finds Nezha the same way. 

"So if you aren't staying here, may I ask where you're headed? I'm a bit of a traveller myself, when it behooves me," Nezha hums, tapping his fingers against the tumbler. "In the very least, I never settled down anywhere long enough to have kids."

Bajie raises his brow as he drinks. "You'll have heard of Black Wind, then?"

"Mm, the River King and the place with all the lamps."

"Lamps?"

Bajie can feel his cheeks growing warm from the drink.

"There was a shop there, if I recall. Had a lot of lamps." Nezha drinks and waves his hand dismissively. His eyes never leave Bajie's, and, maybe it's his imagination, but Bajie thinks maybe Nezha's cheeks are flushing too. "It's not important, go on."

"Ah, t'make a long story short, I lived there for a while, it was always good to me."

They drink.

Henry seems occupied enough watching men throw darts behind them, so Bajie raises his hand and successfully orders another round, placing coins on the bar beside his empty glass.

"I, on the other hand, spent most of my life in the Badlands. The shit I could tell you-- sorry, Henry," he smiles down at the cooing infant. "But, I suppose that's also not something that ought to be shared over drinks with a stranger."

"Yeah," Bajie sighs, sipping and swishing the cool liquid around in his mouth to dull the flavour. "I think I can imagine. We've just been there ourselves, haven't we Henry?" He nudges Henry's shoulder, eliciting a gentle gurgle.

"And you...didn't have any trouble leaving?"

"Ah, you know...not that difficult these days. Um," Bajie shrugs, finishing the last of his vodka and shaking the bite of it away. "I hate to cut our chat short - my only source of recent conversation being an infant without the gift of coherent speech, and all - but I don't suppose you could tell me where there's an inn."

"I could."

Bajie laughs awkwardly, waiting for Nezha to finish his gin and give him directions. 

"...Would you like some company tonight, Bajie?" 

"Oh," he says dumbly, forehead wrinkling in surprise.

Nezha looks away a bit shyly, chewing on his lower lip. "Sorry, if you're not-- If you don't prefer--" 

"No-no, hey," he says with a hand held up to stop Nezha, "Bajie is a lover to all. It's just, no offence, not something I spend my money on these days."

"I'm not asking for money," Nezha says softly. His half-lidded eyes wash over Bajie's body fondly, but land finally on his face, lips curling into a whimsical smile. 

"Look, ah, I've got the kid, and we've got to be getting a move on come morning...Not that I'm not flattered." Bajie pauses, circling the ring of his glass with his forefinger. "...No money?"

Nezha remains silent, brow perked in curious amusement, watching Bajie as he flounders with excuses. He runs his pinky finger along the back of Bajie's thumb. 

"Ahh, no, definitely, I don't think now is the best time."

"Well. Let me at least be your escort to the hotel." 

***

They hit the wall hard, Nezha pressing Bajie's shoulders into the rotting wooden slats beside the door, room 201. Bajie wiggles the old key into the doorknob with one hand and cradles Henry with the other, sort of half on his shoulder, half under his arm. 

Nezha nips at Bajie's lower lip, and Bajie mock-bites at him in return, grinning; he purrs into the other man, their teeth clacking together when they make solid enough contact for a kiss. When they open their eyes, noses rubbing together, Nezha looks absolutely starving for him.

He's not quite seeing double, but his world is spinning. He's sure it's simply due to the volume of vodka he's consumed in his short time at the tavern, but it's nice to imagine that it's elation; that after all the hell and sadness he's experienced this past year, he's finally found a moment of carefree happiness that makes him as dizzy as any drug.

The door opens with a creak and they spill into the room with Nezha having the wherewithal to grab the doorframe and the hem of Bajie's coat to keep them both from losing balance. 

"One second, mate," Bajie says, taking Henry into both arms delicately, rocking him gently for a moment as the other man closes the door with a resounding click.

The room is small, but plenty serviceable for a one night stand and short rest. It isn't well insulated; he can't wait to dive under the covers and fuck the cool evening draught away. In the meantime, the room comes with an oil lamp on the bedside table, which Bajie lights in a hurry, and its heat and light are both very welcome. 

He shucks his bag from his shoulder, and with it, the thin blanket he'd been using as a shawl. He chucks it unceremoniously to the floor, kicking it into a nest on which to lay the baby. Having woken up only briefly during the mens' drunken navigation of the hallway, Henry is out like a light, cuddled into the corner of the floor, by the right side of the twin size bed. 

Nezha remains by the doorway, first removing his sheathed longsword, hanging it on a hook beside the door; he removes his coat and hangs it the same. He's got several layers on - waistcoat, jumper, undershirt - and isn't shy about stripping from each one cleanly until he's topless; winks at Bajie when he catches the man watching him.

Bajie isn't as graceful, but removes his coat and jumper with speed and efficiency, tossing and letting them pool over a wooden chair by the window. He keeps his undershirt and pants on as he flops backwards onto the bed, watching his lanky acquaintance shake his hips free of his trousers.

A tattoo sits under Nezha's long, toned neck like a giant necklace of lotus flowers: five of them in red ink, in a concave arc over his collarbone. His abs flex lightly beneath his skin, and several long, pink scars adorn his pecs and arms under a smattering of delicate blond hair. 

He's elegant, in a way. 

He slinks up the bed, and it groans under their combined weight as Nezha climbs on top to straddle Bajie's hips. The room feels dizzyingly warm already, and he's glad he didn't leap under the blankets after all.

The golden lamplight flickers over damp, eager skin, illuminating such a different figure than he's used to. Bajie hums hungrily, reaching out to the man and getting two handfuls of meaty thigh; placing his lips over a scar when Nezha leans forward and presses their bodies together lewdly.

They both reach to turn off the lantern at the same time, fingers brushing as the room goes dark. Bajie grabs a wrist much thinner than his own and tugs the man to his chest.

He mentally apologizes to everyone in the adjacent rooms. 

***

Night falls hard out here, with only lanterns to light the rooms and the white of the moon creeping through the clouds and between the curtain panels. 

It had been easy enough to fall asleep post-coitus, but as has become habit, instinct tells Bajie to wake up in the wee hours of the morning, when the moon is at its lowest and the first trills of birds ring through the trees. Well, there are no trees in the heart of Boulder Bottom, but it's instinct that rattles him awake still.

He's disoriented at first, eyes wide in the dark in an attempt to see his surroundings. Everything is blobs of black and grey and blue.

Something feels off.

He rolls quickly, reaching over the side of the bed to feel for Henry, who murmurs softly under the touch, still asleep and cuddled up in soft, woolen knits.

With a sigh of relief, Bajie rolls onto his back once more and runs his hand through the sheets. Nezha is gone, but it isn't exactly unusual for his sexual conquests to have taken their leave in the middle of the night. He exhales shallowly, can't shake the feeling that something isn't right here.

Slowly, he rolls himself out of bed, mattress springs squeaking as he sits up. His dagger is in his coat pocket, and something tells him he's going to want it. But just as soon as he stands, Bajie hears the high-pitched clink of his moneybag; a creak across the floorboards that gets his heart racing. 

Then suddenly, the tinny brush of a hand on the doorknob, twisting, and Bajie leaps to his feet, grabbing hold of the curtains and sliding across the flooring to trip the invader. As moonlight pours over the floorboards, he finds Nezha trying to sneak away.

The man swings a leg up, aiming for Bajie's neck, but pelting his shoulder instead as Bajie dodges. He throws a fist into Nezha's chest and tears him down, flipping him onto his back. 

Nezha catapults up off of the floor; when Bajie throws his right fist, Nezha blocks with his forearm and makes another run for the door.

One second, Bajie grabs the dagger from his coat. 

The next, he lets it fly. 

It cartwheels through the air at breakneck speed and chips the wood of the doorframe, stopping Nezha short of reaching for the knob. 

There's a graceful sort of air about him as he steps onto the flat of the blade, propelling himself into the air, tails of his coat flailing behind him. The heel of his boot lands squarely into Bajie's chest. 

Bajie tumbles into the fall. The thin hotel walls shake around him, but he recovers quickly, grabbing Nezha's ankle. 

Throwing him down. 

It's then that Henry lets out a shrill, blood curdling wail, a powerful burst of infantile sobs that makes both men stop and turn their heads. 

Nezha, it seems now, is equally an opportunist - he smirks, scrambling to his feet in a hurry and swinging the frail wooden door open so wide it nearly falls off its hinges. 

Bajie starts after him, but Henry is so loud, so insistent - and he isn't fully dressed, to boot - that he resigns himself to stopping. He's lost this battle; doesn't even reach the doorway before he can no longer hear the pounding of the other man's feet down the hall. 

Nezha's gone. 

"Augh," Bajie sighs, making his way to the beside and lifting Henry into his arms. He rocks him gently side to side, peeling the blankets away from below the kid's chin.

"Alright, little one. It's alright. You can't trust anyone these days, can you Henry?" 

Defeated, he curls up on the bed, lets his head hit the wall above the headrest. He closes his eyes for a moment to let the disappointment seep away with several meditative breaths. 

"Well, nevermind. Let's get you an early breaky."


End file.
